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Created on 1 December 2006 (#11732350)
Last updated on
24 July 2013
At White City Investigations, invisibility was a sacred condition, whole darn floors of office buildings being given over to its art and science-- resources for disguise that outdid any theatrical dressing room west of the Hudson, rows of commodes and mirrors extending into the distant shadows, acres of costumes, forests of hatracks bearing an entire Museum of Hat History, countless cabinets stuffed full of wigs, false beards, putty, powder, kohl and rouge, dyes for skin and hair, adjustable gaslight at each mirror that could be taken from a lawn party at a millionaire's cottage in Newport to a badlands saloon at midnight with just a tweak to a valve or two. Lew enjoyed wandering around, trying on different rigs, like every day was Hallowe'en, but he understood after a while that he didn't have to. He had learned to step to the side of the day. Wherever it was he stepped to had it's own vast, incomprehensible history, its perils and ecstasies, its potential for unannounced romance and early funerals, but when he was there, it was apparently not as easy for anyone in "Chicago" to be that certain of his whereabouts. Not exactly invisibility. Excursion.
Note-- user profile borrowed from Thomas Pynchon's
Against The Day
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I borrowed the Pynchon because I love his books, and was reading that one on my trip.